Final Destination
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: Our boys watch Final Destination. Follow up to ‘Of Chickens and Aztecs’ but reading that one isn’t necessary to understand this. Having seen the movie helps though.


Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Our boys watch Final Destination. Follow up to 'Of Chickens and Aztecs' but reading that one isn't necessary to understand this. Having seen the movie helps though.

Disclaimer: If they were mine...well, read on, these are the kind of conversations they'd be having.

Rating:K+ for a little bit of naughty language.

A/N: I think up such original titles, huh? Oh, there are defiantly major spoilers for Final Destination in here. You've been warned. This can take place pretty much anytime before Daddy Winchester makes his first grand appearence - I don't think I so much as refrence an episode.

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Final Destination

"Well, that was..."

"No." Dean cut off immediately, swiveling his head around to meet Sam's eyes from between the few feet of crappy carpet that separated their motel beds. "Absolutely not. No thoughts. No opinions, no philosophy. I agreed to rent the damn movie on _one _condition, and that was it."

"But..." Sam tried fruitlessly.

"No way." Dean exclaimed. "Just shut up, the movie's over, you've seen it. I've seen it. It's done."

"I can't say just one thing?" Sam pleaded, overly amused with Dean's determination to not start talking.

"I think I've already answered that question." He replied dryly.

Sam waited a few minutes, trying to lull Dean into a false sense of security. Then without warning, "That girl was hot."

Dean turned again, and blinked a few times - seemingly confused - before grinning. "Yeah, she was." A proud smirk followed. "Finally, a normal topic of conversation."

Oh, how Sam loved doing this. "Too bad she's gonna end up dead."

"What?" Dean snapped.

"The movie, her character..."

"Claire." Dean provided, too befuddled to realize entirely what San was doing.

"Claire." Sam nodded. "She's gonna end up dead."

Dean sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes tiredly, listening to the tape as it rewound in the motel's ancient VCR loudly. He'd had to ask the old man at the desk outside earlier specifically to provide the old electronic device. That was after, of course, he'd argued with the clerk at the video store over providing a VHS copy of the movie. Apparently, everything was on DVD now a days.

Dean knew it was a growing trend, the electronic devices, but seriously, a movie rental place with no VHS's at all? The only possible excuse the place had to offer was that it was newly built and completely 'modern.'

Plus, you weren't even allowed to check movies out unless you had an account - and the damn drama/suspense thriller just couldn't be on pay-per-view. Dean had never had an account at a movie store. All his movie rental viewings could be attributed to girls he'd been hanging out with or...no, that was about it. Mostly, he just stuck with cable.

The eldest Winchester brother had spent a grand total of over an hour and a half - time he would never get back, mind you - opening an account with a fake credit card and renting this idiotic movie - after many not so friendly debates with the guy in charge at the store. All because his persistent little brother wouldn't shut up about it.

And now that it was all over, it was nearing one thirty in the morning, and Sam was sitting there with that pleading, amused, almost playful look in his eyes, and Dean knew he really had no choice in the matter.

"Fine Sammy," he gave into the younger man's need to talk. "Why's she gonna end up dead?"

"They screwed with the grand design." He said simply, and Dean groaned.

"You're kidding me right?"

Sam gestured toward the now blank TV, "You mess with death, and...Well, there you go."

"Death isn't a person, or... an entity," Dean half shouted, vocalizing the same thoughts he'd had the first time he'd seen the friggin' movie. "It's an _it_. That's what...it's an idea, an event. Not a noun."

"But fate..."

"There is no fate!" This time Dean did shout, although there was no actual anger behind his words, just exasperation, Sam was still looking on, entertained apparently, by the outburst. "There is no destiny. It's all just a random circle of events, okay? That's life."

"Then why did all those kids end up dying? The teacher? How could that..."

"You realize that didn't _really _happen right?" Dean snapped. "It was just make believe, you know?"

"I know," Sam answered easily. "I thought that's what we were talking about."

"You know it wasn't."

"That's what I was talking about." Although his tone portrayed something else entirely.

"Bullshit." Dean decided. Sam opened his mouth, but Dean beat him to it. "No, its crap, we're never really talking about the movie. Just like we're never really talking about that age old question of the chicken or the egg, or the lyrics to whatever song's playing, or the name of the motel we're staying at, or the guy at the bar..."

"He was talking to God," Sam defended himself at once. "How could that _not _lead to a conversation?"

"He was _claiming _to talk to God," Dean rephrased, "And you could have just let it go. He was a crazy, drunk old guy, nothin' more."

"But what if, by some means of divine intervention, someone _could _actually communicate with a higher being?"

"You're assuming a higher being exists."

"Hints the speculative conversation."

"You know, one of these days, I'm gonna get you to turn your brain off, and you're gonna be amazed at how simple life can be when you don't have to think about _everything _so much."

"So, you _don't _think death was stalking them?"

Dean groaned. "Of course death was stalking them - that's what it said on the back of the box."

"You just don't think it could really happen?"

"How many times have we almost died, Sammy?"

The younger man paused, and was clearly trying to estimate the answer to that question in his mind. After a few silent seconds of trying to figure the numbers, Dean continued.

"Exactly." He said. "And how many times - in all these years - has water come out of the pipes, made us strangle ourselves, just to magically disappear moments later?" Sam opened his mouth, Dean pressed on. "Or, how many times has a random string of events led us to get stabbed in the neck with flying glass, stabbed in the chest with a butcher knife _and _get trapped inside a burning building all in the course of, like, five minutes?"

"Hasn't happened yet, but that's just..."

"Exactly," he went on. "Our car hasn't mysteriously stalled in the railroad tracks and our seatbelts haven't conspired against us. Our heads haven't gotten chopped off by flying metal, and no giant signs have fallen in our general direction."

"Well, we're not in Paris..."

Dean ignored him. "So no Sam, I don't think death can really stalk someone."

"Okay." Sam gave in.

"Okay what?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"Okay, I agree with you." Sam said. "You're right, if we're not dead by now, then, yeah, death stalking someone's defiantly a no go."

"Good," Dean nodded, "Glad to see you can finally see things my way."

And he adjusted the covers slightly, getting ready to lie down and go to sleep...

"Unless, ya know, _we _weren't meant to die."

"I'm gonna kill you." He stated plainly, ignoring the irony of the words completely.

"I mean, death was after them because it was their time to die. We've, obviously, just never been doomed like that."

"Seriously, there's a machete in the car, one clean slice..."

"How could you fight so hard to stay alive, and then still die? That's a curse if I've ever seen one."

"Throw some tarps down, clean up your blood nice and neat..."

"I mean, they _death-proofed _an entire cabin, then rusted fishing tackle equipment came out of the closet, how is that not a sign?"

"I could be out of the country by the time house-keeping finds your body, hightail it to Cuba, or whatever one of them countries has shit loads of gambling crap."

Sam was still speaking the most normal of tones. "I doubt this place has a housekeeping staff that comes around more than once a month,"

"If death was so dead set on finding them, then why the hell did the kid have the premonition in the first place?" Dean demanded.

Sam shook his head once and continued. "He cheated the system."

"Death is not a system."

"Is so."

"Is not."

"Is so."

"Good God, I'm tired."

"Not an excuse."

"Go to bed, Sammy."

"You giving up?"

"No, but I can't afford to pay for any damages."

"Damages to what?" Sam asked, confused.

"The wall." Dean answered easily.

"What damages to the wall? Dean?"

"The big dent in the wall, from where I'm gonna start banging my head against it if you don't shut the hell up already."

Sam smiled genuinely, watching as Dean laid down. "You're giving up, you're admitting that I'm right?"

"Go to bed Sammy."

"You are," he instead. "You admit that death is a plan, it can stalk you just like any old serial killer."

"Only it doesn't need a machete." He mumbled, already halfway unconscious, "Sure Sam, death is coming for us. 'Night."

"You're just gonna go to sleep?" He questioned. "You don't wanna make sure there're no pools outside, or flailing electrical wires anywhere?"

"I hate you," Dean mumbled, turning his back to his brother. "I knew renting that godforsaken movie was a horrible idea."

"No it wasn't." Sam sounded honestly grateful that he had just wasted an hour and a half of his life. "Cause see now, if we ever beat death and it starts coming after us..."

"How're we gonna _beat _death?" Dean mumbled, eyes closed, arm tucked under his pillow.

"Well, I'll probably have a premonition. A vision. A Haley Joel moment, if you will." He said factually.

"Psychic wonder boy strikes again," Dean smirked to himself. "Just don't start dressing like Patricia Arqutte or anything, kay? Death I can handle, you as a cross dresser would be scary."

"Personally I think Patricia Arqutte has a horrible sense of fashion." Sam paused. "She never acts like she'd married to her husband either. It's like, they live together, they procreated together, but really, him and the kids are just renting out the house from her or something."

Dean lifted his head from his mushy pillow, opened his eyes, and stared at him, with a look that would go down in history as the oddest one he had ever graced his little brother with.

Sam stared right back before defending himself, "I'm quoting an old friend, by the way." Dean kept staring. "This kid in a study group from my freshman year, he never shut up about it." Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Stop it." Sam demanded, honestly perturbed at the unwavering quality of the look. "I've never even seen the damn show."

Dean lifted half his lip and shook his head, lowering himself, settling back into the pillows again. A long pause followed before, "He was right about it." Sam's eyes widened this time; Dean just folded his arms behind his head and shut his own eyes, finding the ceiling of the motel was a bland thing to keep looking at. "I think the husband's gay."

"Well this conversation just took a creepy turn."

"Karma." Dean retaliated and smirked subconsciously.

"Going back to what I was saying before..." he tried to continue.

"You know, if it was a toss-up between talking about fate and gay guys I think I'd pick renting Brokeback Mountain."

Sam continued anyway, "If we ever cheat death, now we know what we'll have to do to keep it from winning."

"But it's not a toss-up," Dean sighed wistfully. "You just won't give up until you get every single one of your profoundly idiotic ideas out there. So go head, talk your heart out. But we are never, _ever _actually watching Brokeback Mountain."

"Ditto," his voice held complete, honest compliance. "At least not together, it's a good chick movie, though."

"No its not." Dean couldn't help but argue immediately.

"It's romantic and angst-y," Sam countered. "Of course it's a chick-flick movie."

"It's about two gay guys." Dean stated plainly.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Two gay cowboys, actually. But, yeah."

"_How _is that a chick flick?" He demanded.

Sam chuckled "How would you categorize it then?"

Dean opened his mouth, but could form no good response to that; he blamed the late hour and his growing exhaustion. "Damn it Sammy, go to sleep already."

"Okay, so I'm right about that one." He stated proudly and Dean groaned.

"Sleep, Sam." He repeated. "Those precious hours of the night where we get the rest we need, so that tomorrow when we go hunting, I don't accidentally _kill _you."

"I'm just saying," he started as casually as he could muster. "The next time we're in a life or death situation and we get out alive...or the next time one of my visions saves us and death starts in on us, all we'll have to do is figure out the pattern..."

"And not die in the process." Dean threw in. Because if he talked, he stayed awake, and if he stayed awake, he wouldn't be forced to relive this conversation in the coming light of the morning hours. At least now, he had the luxury of half-pretending he was dreaming.

"Right," Sam agreed easily. "No dying. We'll figure it out, save ourselves. Wind up in Paris all happy and healthy."

"You know, that didn't turn out too good for them." Dean stated, picturing clearly the last few minutes of the movie behind his closed eyelids. He must have seen the stupid thing a dozen times by now. Why did chicks adore this movie so much?

"No," Sam protested, "You didn't let me finish."

"Well," Dean snorted, "By all means..."

"When we're sitting at the cafe table, surrounded by a whole street full of things that could end up killing us if we bothered to look around for half a second..."

"Us or them?" Dean heard the sarcasm in the younger man's voice and was forced, by big brother law, to mock it.

"See we'll," Sam ignored him and swallowed, "We'll just be smart enough _not _to pull out our little destiny centered road map."

"And no red wine." He couldn't help adding.

"And no red wine." He agreed. "Then we won't remind death of its plans to finish its job, and...boddda bing, bodda boom - we live."

"That's assuming that death can be _reminded _of anything," Dean pointed out.

"Huh," Sam stated contemplatively after a few more seconds.

"Crap." Dean responded, annoyed with himself. "Forget I said that."

"No," Sam still sounded thoughtful. "That's a good point. _Did _death show up again because Alex pulled out the map, or would it have happened anyway?"

"Ask the director." Dean stated plainly.

"Think about it," Sam insisted. "Did he _make _death come back?"

"Good God," Dean groaned, turning from his back onto his side, facing away from his little brother.

"Its kinda like Macbeth," he began, but Dean cut him off.

His loud, aggravated tone would not be ignore, "I swear to God, if you bring _Shakespeare _into this conversation _I _will hunt you down and kill you."

"Geez, what's with the death threats?" Sam's voice was still casual. "I'm beginning to think you have anger issues."

"Shakespeare, Sammy." Dean reminded, words muffled slightly by the pillow he had pulled over his head.

"What?" He exclaimed laughingly. "I'm just saying, it's a widely debated thing. Would Macbeth have died if the witches hadn't told him the prophesy?"

"Never read it," the elder man admitted, gratefully so.

"I think he would have," Sam answered his own musings. "If it was meant to be. The witches, the map and the wine, they were just excuses. Things to blame."

"I can blame one of the maids when you turn up dead." Dean added hopefully. "Or maybe fate."

"Shut up Dean," Sam said seriously. "You sound stupid."

Dean sat bolt up right then, ready to tear his little brother a new one, only he was greeted with a set of impossibly white teeth. An unmatched grin, gleaming with little brother flavored amusement.

Finally fed up - yet not as angry as he had been moments before - Dean whipped a pillow at Sam, reaching out far to smack him right in the face. Sammy took it in stride, encircling his arms around the soft article once Dean's grip on it vanished and pulling it away from his face.

"Well," he said evenly. "That was uncalled for."

"Go." he grabbed his second pillow, throwing it down by the headboard. "To." He collapsed onto it, burying half his face in it, but managing to state loudly. "Bed."

"Dean," Sam himself could finally be heard settling into his mattress. "If you didn't want to talk about the movie, all you had to do was say so."

Dean didn't even posses the energy to snort, or smirk or get up and beat his kid brother into a bloody pulp.

"G'night Sammy." Was all he managed to mumble, before the blissful world of sleep swept through and ensured his immediate relaxation.

Tomorrow, he assured himself in one final moment of clarity. Tomorrow he would have his revenge.

End.

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A/N: I love them reviews. 

And I know the end kinda implies some sort of sequel... But I really didn't have anything in mind. If anyone had any ideas - feel free to make suggestions. If not...well, maybe I'll think of something later on: )


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